Life Before John
by IzzyDelta
Summary: This is a story based on Sherlock's life before John Watson entered it. Rated T for security
1. Chapter 1

**Life Before John**

Chapter one

_Surrey 1984_

A seven-year-old Mycroft sits on a row of seats on one wall of a long white hospital corridor. He sits quietly and patiently looking up each time an adult walks past. He looks down the corridor at a man pacing in small circles further down the corridor. The man stops pacing and looks over at Mycroft. He offers the boy a small strained smile. Mycroft replies with a bigger one. The man walks over to Mycroft and sits down next to him, placing his arm around Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft leans into his embrace. 'Will it be long now Daddy?' he asks softly.

'No, Mycroft, it shouldn't be long now.' Mycroft's father lifts the boy on his lap and cuddles him. 'Go to sleep, my son. You're exhausted.'

'Will you wake me when…'

'Yes I will.' His father promises. Mycroft leans his head on his father's chest and slowly drifts off to sleep.

Several hours later, Mycroft wakes as his father gently shakes his shoulder. Mycroft looks up at him bleary-eyed. 'It's time my little man.' Mycroft slips off his father's lap and stands waiting for his father to take his hand and lead him down the corridor to his mother's hospital room. Mycroft's father stops at the window to her room and lifts Mycroft up so he can look in at his mother reclining on the bed with a small bundle in her arms. Mycroft looks up at his father as he sets the boy back down and leads him into the room.

'Mother!' Mycroft runs to the bed.

'Hush little one, you don't want to wake do you?'

'Sorry mother.' Mycroft whispers. His mother pats the bed to indicate that Mycroft should climb up. Mycroft obeys without a second thought. 'He or she?'

'Sherlock.'

'Sherlock, my baby brother?'

'Yes Croft, Sherlock is your baby brother.' Mycroft looks closer at the bundle in his mother's arms. 'Do you want to hold him?' Mycroft looks up at her apprehensively. 'Don't worry, he'll be perfectly safe in your arms.' Mycroft nods and takes the bundle of baby and blankets, settling it in the crook of his arm. He rocks the baby gently and Baby Sherlock stirs.

'He's so small.' At the sound of Mycroft's voice, Sherlock opens his eyes. He smiles and gurgles as Mycroft gently strokes his cheek with a finger.

'He likes you Crofty.' Their father's voice floats towards the brothers from the opposite of their mother.

'I like him too. Were my eyes that blue? And was I that small?'

'His eyes are slightly bluer than yours were and he's slightly smaller, but he's healthy enough.' Mycroft gives Sherlock back to his mother and gives Sherlock's cheek another stroke. He glances up at the clock.

'I should be in school.' He attempts to scramble off the bed but his mother catches hold of him keeping him next to her.

'I don't think your school will mind if you miss a day as you get to know your baby brother.' Mycroft beams. A nurse walks into the room.

'How are you doing Mrs. Holmes?'

'Very well thank you.' The nurse reaches down and takes Sherlock from her. The nurse carries him from the room. Mycroft looks after her.

'Where is she taking him?' His mother hugs Mycroft close.

'Mycroft, Sherlock was born a little to early. The nurses want to keep an eye on him to make sure he will be able to thrive when he comes home. It's just a precaution.'

'When will he be able to come home?'

'Hopefully, he'll be home in the next couple of days.' Mycroft's mother yawns widely.

'Violet, get some sleep. I'll take Mycroft home now to get some rest and to finish sorting out the nursery.' Mycroft's father lifts him off the bed and takes hold of his hand.

'I love you mummy.'

'I love you too Crofty.'


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Surrey 1989_

Sherlock runs into the library where Mycroft is attempting to read a book holding his favourite teddy bear and a couple of chess pieces. He stops right in front of his older brother. 'Myc. Myc. Myc.' Mycroft sighs. 'Mycwoft.'

'My name has an R in it Sherlock. Mycroft not Mycwoft.'

'Sorry Mycroft.' Mycroft smiles and puts down his book.

'Did you want something little brother?' Sherlock hold up the chess pieces.

'Can you teach me and Blobe?' Mycroft pretends to sigh and turns his head to hide a smile from the five year old. 'Mycroft, please.' Mycroft hold his hand out for the chess pieces and Sherlock tips them into his brother's hand. Mycroft stands and takes his brother's hand leading from the library to the nursery where the chessboard is set out minus the pieces that Sherlock and taken.

Two hours later, a knock sounds at the front door of the house but both the boys ignore it preferring to concentrate on their game. 'Master Mycroft?' A maid calls up the stairs. Mycroft looks at the door to the nursery. He gets up reluctantly and heads over to the door and out down the stairs. He spots a policeman standing in the entrance hall. He looks back at Sherlock lying on his front peering at the board.

'I won't be a minute Lockie. Don't move anything.' Sherlock rolls onto his back to look at the Mycroft walking out of the door. Sherlock stands and walks over to the door. He leans against the doorframe as he watches Mycroft descend the stairs and approach the maid and the policeman.

'Is something wrong officer?'

'It's about your parents.' The officer hesitates and Mycroft pales and glances up the stairs to the nursery door. Sherlock migrates from the doorway to the top of the stairs. He crouches looking through the bannisters.

'Yes?'

'Mycroft, may I call you Mycroft?' He nods. 'Your parents were involved in an incident.'

'What kind of incident?' the policeman hesitates again. 'Please, everyone says I'm mature for my age and… and I need to know.' The policeman kneels down to look Mycroft in the eye on his level. He glances up at the maid.

'It was a bomb.' The maid gasps and Mycroft looks at the policeman speechless.

'Myc?' Sherlock's voice floats down from the top of the stairs. Mycroft swallows a couple of times.

'Sherlock, go back to the game. I'll be up in a minute.' He keeps looking at the policeman. He senses that Sherlock doesn't move. 'Miss Holly, please keep my brother entertained.' The maid nods and walks up the stairs to Sherlock. She picks him up and carries him into the nursery closing the door behind them. Mycroft gestures behind him. The policeman follows Mycroft into the library.

'I must say you're taking this rather well.' Mycroft swallows.

'Were my parents the only victims?'

'No. There have been ten other deaths from the blast.'

'Did they suffer?'

'No.' Mycroft sighs with relief.

'I'm glad they didn't suffer. Do you know who planted the bomb?'

'The authorities aren't entirely sure.'

'But you have theories?' The officer scratches his head and looks around the library. 'You look like you need a drink.' Mycroft gestures to the decanters on the side table. 'Help yourself.'

'I can't I'm on duty.'

'You were sent to tell a twelve year old his parents are dead. I'm sure your superiors will allow a single drink.'

'Good point.' The police officer pours himself a brandy.

'We have theories, yes.'

'Please tell me.'

'A group called the IRA.' Mycroft nods thoughtfully. 'Something tells me that sometime in the near future you will be researching them.' Mycroft smiles weakly. The policeman stands after draining his brandy.

'Thank you for letting telling me officer, I know many adults would be reluctant to tell a twelve year old anything.' The officer takes a card out of his pocket and hands it to Mycroft. 'Detective Inspector Rupert Lestrade.'

'Call me if you just need to talk about anything. I have a son who's slightly older than you and another about your brother's age plus a daughter in between.'

'Thank you, I will. Let me show you out.' Mycroft leads DI Lestrade to the door and sees him out. As the door closes both the DI and Mycroft take a deep breath. Mycroft walks up the stairs and opens the nursery door. Sherlock wraps himself around his brother's leg.

'Myc, what's a bomb?' Mycroft unwinds his brother's arms from his leg and crouches down in front of him.

'Sherlock, our mother and father are dead.'

'I know. But what's a bomb?'

'Something that blows other things up.'

'Mummy and Father were blown up?' Sherlock's face falls as Mycroft nods. Mycroft wraps his arms around his little brother as the little boy starts to cry. After a few moments Sherlock pushes himself off Mycroft.

'Will we have to move?'

'I think so brother.'

'Will we stay together? I don't want be on my own.' Sherlock starts crying again.

'I hope so brother. I hope so.' Mycroft wraps his arms around his brother again and the little boy sobs into Mycroft's chest. Mycroft closes his eyes and rests his check on top of Sherlock's curls wishing he could just be a little boy and not have to worry about their future.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_Whitehall, London 2005_

Mycroft sits heavily down at his desk and rubs his eyes. It has been a long day for him, full of meetings and paperwork… and Sherlock. His brother, born seven years, three months, one week and two days after Mycroft, had got himself arrested for the fifth time in as many days. And he expected Mycroft to leap into action to rescue him. Each time reciting the reason that Mycroft hadn't been there when Sherlock had needed him when they were kids, therefore Mycroft should help him out now to atone for the sins. He rubs his eyes again and turns a monitor on. He flicks through the images on screen, each one a different angle of Sherlock's rooms in Baker Street. Mycroft sighs and reaches for his phone, but before he can dial a number a knock sounds at the door. 'Come in.' the door opens and his assistant walks in.

'A Detective to see you sir.'

'Send him in Anthea.' Mycroft instructs tiredly. The police officer walks in. Mycroft stands to greet him, running his eyes over the man. Married three, _no four,_ years; small daughter; yellow stained fingers, _not recent,_ smoker, _patch under sleeve_, attempting to quit for daughter's wellbeing; inherited gene of greying hair at a young age, _no colourant_; unhappy in marriage; workaholic, no uses work to _escape_ fights; creased trousers, jacket, no waistcoat _not fussed about appearance_; used hole on either side of belt fastening, _doesn't care much about weight_. Mycroft gestures for the detective to sit. He does and Mycroft retakes his seat. 'Detective, what can I do for you?'

'Mr. Mycroft Holmes?'

'Yes, that is I.'

'Brother to Sherlock Holmes?'

'Unfortunately for my sanity, yes he is my little brother.' The Detective chuckles slightly. 'What has he done?'

'You mean apart from insulting my entire team, contaminate a crime scene, assault a police officer all while high as a kite on cocaine?'

'My brother is rather intransigent when it comes to other people's feelings.' Mycroft sighs heavily.

'Don't get me wrong he's amazing, he solved the crime in about three minutes of turning up and it's got my superiors off my back for a while.'

'But you want me to do what?'

'Attempt to persuade him that injecting cocaine isn't the way to go.' Mycroft chuckles.

'Detective, if I say anything he will go and do the opposite.'

'I thought that would be the case.'

'Where is he now?'

'In a cell at Scotland Yard.'

'Let's make a deal with my brother.'

'How?'

'He either detoxes in that cell with no interference from myself or in my home under constant supervision and he will have no free will until the both of us are satisfied that he is clean and that he will remain so.'

'I think that is a fair deal. Who wants to put the deal to him?'

'Both of us should have the impact we want.'

'Which one do you think he'll go for?'

'The cell, he hates me taking control of his life. But if he expects me to bail him constantly then…' Mycroft spreads his hands aimlessly. The detective smiles in understanding. 'Before we break the news to my brother. I feel you have the advantage over me.' The detective frowns. Mycroft leans forward on his desk. Looking at the detective with his piercing gaze. 'I do not know your name but you know mine.'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade.' Mycroft frowns.

'Lestrade?'

'Yes. Greg Lestrade.'

'Not a relative of Rupert Lestrade?' Greg Lestrade looks surprised.

'He's my father. I became a police officer to follow in his footsteps. I idolized him as a kid.' He pauses. 'How do you know him?'

'When I was twelve, he broke the news to me that my parents had died in the bomb blast.' Greg's mouth drops open.

'You. You're him.'

'I take it that he told you about me then?'

'That day he came home and collapsed on the sofa. He told us about his day. Paperwork then that bomb went off. He said that got a call to visit a manor to tell a pair of brothers that their parents were involved. He found it difficult but the elder sibling was really grown up about it. He was impressed that you asked sensible questions and stayed calm.'

'Did he tell you about the brandy?' Greg looks at him curiously. 'I'll take that as a no then.'

'Go on.'

'He looked flustered. I think that he almost wanted me to break down. But I knew I had to stay strong for Sherlock. We were in the library so I could get details but without upsetting Sherlock even more. I offered him a drink but he declined and I used logical reasoning to point out that they wouldn't mind if he had one drink.'

'Nah, he didn't say anything about that.' Mycroft chuckles. He stands and Greg rises as well. Greg follows Mycroft out of the office.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_New Scotland Yard, London 2005_

Mycroft follows Greg through the corridors of Scotland Yard to the cell in which Sherlock Holmes is being incarcerated. Sherlock's shouts reverberate around the cellblock. Mycroft pauses listening to the echoes of each shout. 'Quite a pair of lungs he has on him.' he remarks quietly

'Rather, he gives the officers on duty down here severe headaches.'

'Why aren't I surprised?'

'He was a nightmare to all the people who fostered him. We were split up when he was seven. I was sent to a boarding school for talented students and he felt that I had abandoned him. I hesitate to say that he didn't really try to get on with any of his careers. He was labeled a problem child.'

'To be fair he had lost his parents to a terrorist bomber at a young age.'

'And his older brother is taken away from him two years later. His one rock in a storm.'

'Did they ever get to the group who planted that bomb?'

'Yes. Eventually.'

'Meaning you got them.'

'How cynical of you to imply that I took revenge for the death of my parents.'

'I never implied anything.'

'MYCROFT!' Sherlock bellows. Mycroft flinches.

'Yes Sherlock?'

'GET ME OUT OF HERE!'

'Why?'

'YOU OWE ME!' Mycroft sighs and walks to the door behind which Sherlock is staying. Greg follows and lets the viewing window open. Sherlock's face appears.

'You don't need to shout brother.' The door shudders as Sherlock bangs on it.

'Get me out of here.' Mycroft looks into the eyes of his little brother.

'Your pupils are severely dilated little brother. Just how much did you take?'

'Piss off Mycroft.' Mycroft straightens and looks over at Greg.

'Charming man.' Greg smirks. 'First he wants to get him out then he want me to disappear.'

'Take me with you.' Sherlock whines. Mycroft smirks at Greg. The both of them just out of Sherlock's sightline. Greg steps up to the window.

'You have a choice Holmes. Either, you leave with your brother and you stay at his house under 24/7 supervision as you detox, you will not have any choice in your life for the next couple of months; or you can stay in the cell and it is up to me when you're detoxed enough.' Sherlock glares at Greg through the window but stays silent. Mycroft joins Greg looking through the window.

'It's up to you brother. Either stay here for a week maybe two until he thinks you're ready to leave or you come and live with me for a couple of months guarded and force fed if need be.' Sherlock scowls through the window at the two of them. 'If you don't choose quickly we'll make the choice for you.' Sherlock retreats to the bed in the cell muttering.

'Sherlock? I didn't quite catch that.'

'I said you have my answer.' He mutters a little louder.

'Right then, stop bellowing and acting like a three year old.'

'Piss off Mycroft.'

'I only have your best interests at heart little brother.'

'What about fifteen years ago?'

'It was thirteen years Sherlock. I didn't have any choice any more than you did.' Greg closes the viewing window before leading Mycroft out of the cell area. Mycroft turns to Greg. 'Give him a week maybe two then tell him that he has to stay clean if he wants to assist you on crimes.' Mycroft looks into the middle distance.

'Mr. Holmes?'

'Please call me Mycroft.'

'Are you okay?'

'As can be. I'd better get back to my office.' Mycroft turns away, pauses then turns back. 'How is your father?'

'Retired and hating it. He was always one for being in the middle of the action.'

'Yes, well. Give my regards to him when you next see him.'

'Thank you I will. I know he has often wondered what became of the two of you.' Mycroft smiles tightly, turns and walks off down the corridor. Greg looks after him before returning to Sherlock's cell. he lowers the window and looks at the young man sitting on the low bed.

'He does care for you.'

'Piss off Lestrade.'


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_London 2005_

Mycroft sits back down at his desk and scrubs his face with his hands. He glances at the clock and realizes that he has been up for nearly twenty-four hours. He sighs heavily and scrubs his face again. Thoughts and memories of him and Sherlock throughout their childhood run through his head. One in particular sticks in his memory. He lets his eyes close in an attempt to ignore the painful memory.

_Oxford 1996_

Mycroft sits in his room in halls of residence at the prestigious university and works through one of the many essays he has to complete for his course. He searches through the various textbooks and previous academic works for suitable quotes for his current essay. The phone in the hallway starts to ring. Preferring to concentrate on his essays Mycroft ignores the ringing phone. He manages to write over hundred words before another resident of the dorm answers the phone. Subconsciously, he listens to the muffled voice of the resident on the phone, as he finishes the essay. Thankfully he concludes the essay before a shout from the resident on the phone shouts for him. 'Mycroft! It's for you.' Mycroft sighs and lays down his pen and sorts his papers into the right order. He sets them down and places his pen and a paperweight on top to secure them. He stands and makes his way out of his room to the phone. He takes it from his fellow tenant.

'Mycroft Holmes speaking.' he speaks into the phone's mouthpiece.

'Have you had any contact with your younger brother lately?'

'No.' Mycroft answers cautiously. 'Why?'

'We think he's run away.'

'When?'

'Two day ago, we-'

'Why am I only hearing about this now?' Mycroft breaks in getting angry. 'I thought it was written in both our files that I was to be contacted directly in this sort of situation.'

'It is. Because he has done this several times before we thought we would be able to retrieve him directly.'

'Retrieve him? _Retrieve him_? Like some sort of dog?' Mycroft's voice rises. 'And now you're phoning me _now_?' A tear falls from Mycroft's eye. He brushes it away and takes a deep breath. 'Right tell me what happened to him in the last week.' He demands finally. He hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone.

'He… didn't do much. He refused to go to school; he refused to leave his room. He wouldn't speak. To anyone.'

'And why wasn't I told?'

'He wrote that he didn't want us to trouble you.'

'And you listened to him?' Mycroft's tone is incredulous. 'My brother can be a manipulative little devil. All that time he's was planning.' Mycroft growls in frustration. 'If he refuses to speak, it's a giveaway that he's planning something. It should be in his file.'

'It's not.'

'What?'

'The office was broken into and some of the files were tampered with.'

'When did my brother first refuse to speak this time?'

'Three days after the break in.'

'Which was?'

'Exactly a month ago.'

'Right, where are you based? You never said. From your accent I would say East Sussex.'

'That's right. Hailsham. Jemini Response, a home for children with challenging behaviour.' Mycroft inwardly seethes. _That's not how to get through to him _he thinks. 'I have to talk to my supervisor but I think I know where my brother has gone to.'

'Then where is he?' The voice of the social worker becomes exasperated.

'Do you _really_ think I would tell someone who treats children like _animals_?'

'I don't-' the social attempts to protest.

'You said, "_retrieve_" as if my brother was a dog. Which I may add I pointed out earlier. You could have said find.' Mycroft pauses for a moment to regain control of his emotions. 'I think it would be better if I went on my own to find him. Don't you?' Mycroft hangs up the phone without letting the social worker reply. He leans against the wall and runs his hand through his closely cropped hair.

'Are you okay Mycroft?' The resident who answered the phone peeks out of his door. Mycroft looks over at him.

'We share the same supervisor don't we?' The resident nods.

'Do you want me to fetch him?'

'Please Simon.' Mycroft gives him a grateful smile. 'If it's not too much trouble for you.' Simon grins.

'No trouble what so ever, I seem to recall that I owe you a couple of favours.' Simon finishes tying his laces before running down the hall to fetch their course supervisor. Mycroft reenters his room and sorts through his papers. A small, discoloured card slips from one of the piles of papers and falls to the floor. Mycroft notices and picks it up. He glances at the writing on it and thinks. He wanders back out to the phone and dials.

'Hello?'

'Is Rupert Lestrade available?'

'Speaking.'

'This is Mycroft Holmes. Five years ago you came to tell me that my parents had died…' Mycroft trails off.

'Mycroft, hello. What can I do for you?'

'Are you able to get down to our family's house?' Mycroft hesitates before barreling on. 'I only ask because I think my little brother has run there. And I'm currently in Oxford and I'm not able to get there until at noon tomorrow at the earliest-'

'Mycroft, breathe.' Rupert's calm voice interrupts Mycroft flow. Mycroft giggles nervously. 'Listen to me, have you alerted the police?'

'His social worker has I think. I didn't actually ask. All I know is that he has been missing for two days and his social worker has ignored an instruction to call me immediately if a situation with Sherlock arises.'

'Mycroft, I can check to see if it has been reported, but I'll need to ring off first. Do you want me to meet you at the station?'

'The train station, please. If you do see him today, don't approach him.'

'Ok. Let me know when you're on your way.'

'Thank you.' Mycroft listens for the click of disconnection before hanging up the phone. Simon reappears with their supervisor in tow.

_London 2005_

Mycroft startles himself awake and rubs his eyes. 'Why?' he murmurs 'Why does it have to be that one?' He bangs his head gently on the desk. He keeps his head down and groans. 'Why can't you pretend to be more normal?'

'Holmes?' Mycroft jerks up looking at the newcomer.

'Mr. Home Secretary, what can I do for you?'

'Are you okay?' Mycroft smiles.

'I'm absolutely fine.'

'When was the last time you slept?' Mycroft hesitates. The Home Secretary grimaces as the silence provides the answer. 'Get some sleep Holmes. You can't expect to make any sensible decisions if your brain is exhausted.' The man turns and leaves Mycroft's office.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_Oxford 1996_

Mycroft steps off the train onto the platform in Haslemere. He looks up and down the platform as it clears. He recognizes the silhouette of Rupert Lestrade standing at the end closest to the station's exit. Rupert spots Mycroft watching him. He smiles as Mycroft walks towards him. The two of them shakes hands. 'He is there.' Rupert tells Mycroft as they walk out of the station.

'I thought he would be.'

'May I ask how?' Rupert leads Mycroft to the unmarked police car. Mycroft climbs in the front passenger seat as Rupert situates himself in the driver's seat.

'We think differently to other people. Our family always has. But this time it's rather obvious.'

'Seven years since-'

'Since the bomb that killed our parents exploded. And he asked about them when I saw him a few months ago. '

'Two points that could only combine to mean one thing.'

'Two possibilities actually.' Rupert glances at the teenager.

'Humour me.'

'The home we were taken from, number one. Number two, the location where the bomb went off.'

'Why would he want to go there?'

'Interest. Curiousity. And that he was forbidden to ever go there by the social workers.'

'Tell him to do something he'll do the opposite?'

'Pretty much, but he can tell when you're trying to do reverse psychology as well. The Holmes family is cursed with over active brains. We have to find something to keep them working. Puzzles, politics, parties or…' Mycroft pauses and looks out of the window.

'Or what?'

'We turn to drugs and alcohol or become so depressed that suicide is almost inevitable.'

'Jesus.' Lestrade breathes. He glances at the seventeen year old. Rupert senses that Mycroft wants to add to his statement.

'Sher… Sherlock thinks I've betrayed… their memory.' Rupert pulls the car off the road and parks it giving Mycroft his full attention.

'Why?' he asks gently. Mycroft turns to him, tears streaming down his face.

'Because I'm glad they died when they did. Glad that they didn't have to suffer addictions or depression or any sadness that the family is cursed with.' Mycroft swallows. 'It's not that I don't want them to be around. I want Sherlock to know them as I knew them, happy, cheerful, living life as it should be lived. I would give everything thing I own to see them one last time, for Sherlock to spend a week with them. If I could change two things in this world I would bring back my parents and cure the family of our addictive natures. But I can't and we have to live with it.' Mycroft roughly brushes the tears away from his face. 'It's part of life's meaning that it's cruel.'

'That is a very cynical view Mycroft.'

'If life wasn't cruel, maybe my parents would still be dead but Sherlock and I would still be close. That bomb changed everything. Destroyed our lives. We lived in the foster home for five months before we were separated. Sherlock nearly died, he refused to eat, drink, sleep; he cried constantly wanting out parents, wanting me. I wasn't able to be there for him. I couldn't be there for him when he needed me the most. But I can be here for him now. Let's go and find him.' Mycroft stares straight ahead out of the windscreen.

'You sound like my eldest. I'm sure you tried your best Mycroft. You were still a child yourself and don't forget that.'

'I needed him too.' Mycroft's voice is quiet. 'I needed to care for my little brother. I wallowed for three months after we were separated. My grades slipped, I didn't take care of myself, and I skived off school. My parents put me back on the track. They appeared to me in a dream, disappointed. It was enough to get me back on track.'

'How did you know he was going to the family home?'

'It was the most likely, being the closest of where he ran away from. Plus there are more places to hide in and around the manor buildings.' Rupert looks at him before merging back into the flow of traffic.

Several minutes later, the car pulls up out side the front door of the Holmes' Family Manor. Mycroft checks his reflection in the rear view mirror. Satisfied that his little brother wouldn't deduce that he had been emotional (crying). Mycroft climbs out of the car and looks up at his childhood home. A flood of happy memories assails his mind. He takes a deep breath and inserts his key into the lock on the front door. He pushes the door open and enters into the vaguely familiar entrance hall. Scanning the room he spots each and every indicator that his little brother has been in the manor. 'Detective Inspector do you have any cake or any other sweet food on you?' Rupert Lestrade produces a pre-packaged slice of cake and a bottle of sparkling water. Mycroft smiles his thanks and swiftly makes his way up the stairs to the nursery. Gingerly he pushes the door open and looks in at his little brother curled up on the child's bed. 'Far too easy little brother.' Mycroft teases him gently. 'You could have at least made it a challenge for me.' Sherlock lifts his head to look at him. 'I bring food.' Mycroft holds the cake and water up. 'May I come in.' Sherlock nods as an answer. Mycroft joins his brother on the bed and hands the food to him. Sherlock scoffs the food and gulps the water.

'Took you three days.'

'Actually I only found out at eight thirty yesterday evening.' Sherlock looks doubtful. 'The social workers ignored the note to ring me.'

'They're idiots.'

'No arguments from me on that front brother.'

'How?'

'The date, our last talk, the locations; worked it out in under a minute little brother. All the while lecturing the head worker about not ignoring the instructions or insulting my little brother. ' Mycroft draws Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock flinches and pulls away.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_London 2005_

Sherlock walks out of the cell that Lestrade and Mycroft had locked him in to make him clear his system of the drugs. Sherlock leaves the door open and walks down the corridor. He signs for his stuff and makes for the doors leading to the streets. 'Want some proper food?' Sherlock turns and looks for the owner of the voice. 'You need to get some decent food into you. Not this microwave crap.' Sherlock locates the speaker.

'Lestrade.' He mutters. 'Why would I want to eat with my gaoler?'

'You chose to stay here.' Lestrade points out from his place at the turn of the stairs looking down at the consulting-detective-to-be. 'Besides I bring gifts.' Sherlock huffs. Lestrade shrugs and brandishes a few folders. 'Your loss.' Lestrade turns and walks down the stars away from Sherlock. The young Holmes scowls at the detective's back. Sherlock walks out of the station onto the street and almost walking straight into the young detective inspector as his eyes adjust from the dim artificial light into the bright sunlight. 'Careful Sherlock, how does steak sound?'

'Disgusting.' Sherlock walks down the street, Lestrade follows. Spotting a fish and chip shop Lestrade places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently guides him into the shop. As they pass through the doorway Sherlock's stomach rumbles. Lestrade laughs gently. Sherlock takes a seat at one of the tables as Lestrade goes to the counter to order two portions of cod and chips. Lestrade decides to have the order wrapped up and ready to take out.

Once the order has been fulfilled Lestrade collects Sherlock and leads him back out into the open air. The two of them walk to a nearby park and look for a secluded corner for them to discuss the various cold cases that Lestrade had decided to let Sherlock to look at. For once, Sherlock ignores the files in favour of devouring his portion of battered fish and deep fried chips. Lestrade watches him with an amused expression. 'Hungry?' Lestrade asks. Sherlock nods.

'Starving.' He looks up at the police officer. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Because I want to help you.' Lestrade pushes the folders towards Sherlock. 'I want to give you a taste of what you might have if you stay clean.' Sherlock reaches for the first folder and flicks through the picture and various case notes of the investigating officers. He gives a snort of disgust.

'Were these officers incompetent or what?'

'Go on.' Lestrade prompts ignoring the jibe at his fellow officers. 'What do you see?'

'Come on, it's obvious that the brother did this one.'

'But he was killed as well.'

'Suicide. Elaborate suicide but suicide all the same.' Sherlock points at one of the photos. 'There, it's a motion trigger. Each time he walks past, it comes a little closer to activation. He wouldn't know when it would happen.'

'Why did he create it?'

'I would guess at remorse from killing his sister or maybe he created it before he murdered his sibling but I doubt it.' Sherlock closes the folder and sets it to one side before picking up the next. Repeating the process several times Sherlock stretches out on the grass positioning folders on his stomach while holding papers over his face. Suddenly the young detective falls silent and Lestrade who had been scanning the rest of the park glances over at him. The Detective Inspector smiles at the scene before him. Sherlock had simply exhausting himself and had fallen asleep case folders resting on his chest and papers in hand. A shadow falls over the two of them and Lestrade looks up.

'Mr. Holmes.'

'How has my brother been?'

'Rather cooperative since the deal we struck with him.' Lestrade gestures to the folder and papers strewn around Sherlock. 'I decided to give him an incentive to stay clean.'

'I take it he came out today?' Lestrade glances at his watch.

'He's been out about two hours now.'

'Has he eaten?' Lestrade points to the empty fish wrappers.

'All of his and most of mine. He should have some fluid as soon as possible but I failed to buy some when I bought the chips.'

'We'd better get him home.' Mycroft sighs. 'He won't want to go to my place, he can't really go to yours and his landlord has had enough and evicted him while he was residing in your cell.'

'My cell?'

'I mean yours as a police officer rather than as an individual.'

'If you say so Mr. Holmes.'

'I remember asking you to call me Mycroft, Greg.' Greg Lestrade smiles.

'So you did, Mycroft.' The two elder men glance at the younger man asleep on the grass. 'Where is he going to stay?'

'Before you arrested him I believe he was in contact with an elderly lady he helped out. She has a flat to let but I think he needs somewhere a little cheaper at least to begin with.' Lestrade tidies up all the papers and sorts them into the correct folders. He gently shakes the young man awake.

'Sherlock, time to wake up.' Sherlock stirs groaning.

'What time is it?'

'You've only been asleep for about thirty minutes.' Sherlock registers the presence of his elder brother for the first time.

'What are _you_ doing here?' He growls.

'Merely wondering where you will be living for the foreseeable future. Your stuff is currently residing in a cupboard in my flat.

'104d Montague Street.'


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

_Hailsham 1996_

They locked me in here again. I didn't even do it this time. One would assume that being in the Governor's office would be an adequate alibi. But no they always blame me. Ever since... no, I'm not going to think about that. I glance around the room and see that they've taken all the clocks. Ridiculous, they think that actually works on me. I snort in disgust. It's all Mycroft's fault. It's always his fault. He lied to me. He said we would stay together. He lied. Tears start rolling down my cheeks. I brush them away and kick the wall angry with myself for breaking down. I cannot cry. I must not cry. I cannot cry. I must not cry. I cannot cry. I must not cry. I mutter this for three hours thirty minutes exactly. How do I know? I was locked in here at exactly one pm. Those who go out to school don't get back until four thirty. Two of the other children, residents, inmates clatter past on the tiled floor of the corridor. 'What's the date again?' one of them shouts just outside my door.

'July tenth.' The reply is muffled but I hear it clearly enough. The tenth of July. One week. Seven days until the anniversary of my parents' death. After that bomb. I start pacing the room. Seconds later, I freeze as realization hits me. Seven years ago, I last saw my parents; since I kissed them goodbye so they could attend what… My told me only the other month. I bang the heels of my hangs against my temples on an effort to remember. It comes to me. It was a series of dinners to commemorate a series of foreign nationals with a couple of charity events thrown in. I sink to the floor. Seven years ago to the day. I glance out of the triple locked window. Seven years almost to the minute since my five-year-old hand waved good-bye to them driving away; since my five-year-old mouth kissed Mummy on the cheek; since my five year old limbs clung to Daddy begging him to take me with them. I shake my head violently. I wish I had gone with them. Mycroft chose to stay behind didn't he? My parents only left me because he was staying. That means he would be left all alone. Good, I think. _You were close to him remember?_ A voice speaks at the back of my head. He abandoned me, I argue. _He didn't want to go_. It points out. SHUT UP I yell out loud HE ABANDONED ME. HE COULD HAVE FAUGHT TO STAY. The voice stays quiet. I relax fractionally. I uncurl myself and move to the window. I make no attempt to pick the locks. I must get out. I have to go home. I need to go home. I ignore all the others playing in the park and garden. Supervised of course. I watch the sun sinking down behind the houses and trees before hiding behind the horizon. I listen to the chattering of the imbeciles as our gaolers, I mean, house parents lead them in for dinner time. I snort. Those cretins really think that forbidding me food and sending me to bed without my supper is punishment. I giggle quietly. Little do they know that I often go without food quite by choice. This punishment is nothing of the sort. The only potential punishment here is the boredom. If anything gets me here it will be the boredom, not hunger, not reduction of privileges, just complete and utter boredom. I yawn. May as well get some sleep while I'm here. I don't need it of course but there's nothing else to do. I think I will sleep. They will think that they've won but I know the truth.

Two days, three hours, thirty-eight minutes and twelve seconds since they first locked me in here they unlock the door and restore the clocks. I watch the smirks grow across their faces. I grin internally my plan is working. I will behave for them. That is I will behave how they want me to. Then I will run. Run to the only home I have ever known. I looked it up on a road map before I was locked in. Hindhead Surrey. Seventy miles away at worst. I get there in a couple of days of travel easily. I start to horde food to take with me. I steal down to the kitchen at night to acquire more food for the journey. I know my room is searched periodically. I'm not stupid enough to hide anything in there. Come on seriously I come from two families that have huge well-trained intellects. I will wait for the day after tomorrow. No, I will go tomorrow. After school, I can easily say I've got detention. Ah, problem, no not really. Tyler's the only one from this prison in my year and we have no classes together. I'll write a note asking her to tell the idiots and give it to her at morning break. Hmmm, I'd better make it a long one, the detention that is not the note.

I'm tired, exhausted actually. I had to walk a lot longer than seventy miles to keep away from the main roads and large towns. I had to venture close sometimes to make sure I was still on the right track. But I will admit this. I was close to giving up and calling either Mycroft or the morons. But then I saw a sign. 'Hindhead 5 miles' I knew the manor was a mile or so outside of the town, on the east side. I grin only four miles to go. No way am I giving up now. An ache starts to build up in my feet and legs. A car slows down behind me. It stops but I ignore it and start walking again. 'Hey kid.' I keep walking. 'Hey kid, are you okay?' I turn and glare at the idiot driver.

'Course I'm okay.' I snap at him 'why wouldn't I be?'

'You look exhausted.' I scan his clothes and features. Married, two kids, relatively well off but lives modestly; grew up in a poor, proud family, hard worker. He watches me closely but not too closely. 'Look, I would drop you wherever you say.' I hesitate. It would give my feet a rest.

'Okay.' I feel that I give in too easily but I really need the rest. I walk back down the road to the car and climb into the passenger seat.

'Where to?'

'Just outside town, about a mile this side.' The driver merges the car back into the flow of traffic. Thankfully the driver doesn't try to engage me in conversation. I watch the countryside roll past the window. I start to recognize some of it. I look forward and catch a glimpse of a set of gates ahead. I start to get excited at the prospect of finally being home. 'Just up here at the gates.' I tell the driver. I can tell he doesn't want to let me out here but he stays true to his promise and let me out at the locked gates. He watches me as I stand in front of the gates. I glance over my shoulder and throw him a smile as I make it look like I'm searching my pockets for the key to open the smaller gate. I listen to him drive off and wait for a lull in the traffic. When one comes I'm up and over the gate in seconds. As my feet regain contact with the ground all of my aches and pain disappear. I hoist my bag higher and run the seven hundred and forty yards to the front door of the manor.

I listen to the car pulling up outside the front door of the Holmes manor. After it stops I hear footsteps belonging to Mycroft in the gravel as well as another set I don't recognize. I hear the door open and Mycroft's voice ask for some ask. Mycroft's feet landing on the wooden stairs reverberates around the silent house. I refuse to move from my place on the bed in the old nursery and hide. I had barely broken it in before I was taken from it after their deaths. The door creaks open and 'Far too easy little brother.' I look up at him. He proffers the cake and a bottle of water. Bribery. 'May I come in?' I nod and he sits at other ends of the bed. I can't resist a little dig at him.

'Took you three days.'

'Actually I only found out at eight thirty yesterday evening. The social workers ignored the note to ring me immediately.'

'They're idiots.' Mycroft snorts with laughter.

'No arguments from me.' I can't resist I have to know.

'How?'

'Date, our last talk, locations, worked it out in under a minute…' Mycroft witters on for a few more seconds but I tune it out. He draws me into a hug but I flinch and pull away. Mycroft stares at me deducing. He gently reaches out and pushes a sleeve up my arm. It reveals a large bruise, yellow, black, green, blue, purple. He swallows angrily; for once it's not me that's caused his rage. 'Who did that to you?' I refuse to answer. His voice rises. 'Sherlock, who hit you?' I can tell he wants to shake me but I know he won't. At least he can say he's never hit me and I can't say that I never pushed him that far. I take off my jumper and my shirt before staring defiantly at my older brother. His face pales. 'How dare they? First they call you a dog, then they do this?' He stands and steps over to the door. He looks out over the entrance hall. 'Detective Inspector?' A man I vaguely recognize climbs the stairs and looks into the room at me. 'How old are they?' I can help flinching at the very cold tone of Mycroft's voice.

'I'd say a week at least.' My brother turns back to me.

'Before you ran away.' I knew it wasn't a question but I nod anyway. 'Does Watkins know?' I indicate no. 'You aren't going back there I promise.' Mycroft helps me put my shirt back on. He takes my hand and gently tugs me up and out of the house followed by the Detective Inspector. At the door I pull my hand out of his and I turn back up the stairs. Quickly I repack my bag and rejoin them at the car. Mycroft smiles relieved I'm coming quietly. I feel happier, like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I climb into the car sitting in the back seat next to Mycroft who gently puts his arms around my shoulder carefully so it doesn't hurt my bruises too much. Now that he knows I let it stay there. I glance at his stoic face. Maybe Grandfather was right, caring is not an advantage.


End file.
